Paul saw his mother vanish in the dusk, and, merrily intoning the tune of a hymn, Warren came on toward Paul. On he Strode, still swinging his hat. Paul heard him softly chuckling.
“Halt, you dirty coward!” Paul cried, as he stepped in front of him, the gun leveled at the broad chest.
“What—what? Good God!” Warren gasped. “Put down that gun, you young fool! Drop it, I say, or I'll—”
Warren was about to spring forward as the only means of self-protection, but before he could do so there was a flash, a ringing report, a puff of smoke, and with a groan Warren bent forward, his hands on his breast. He swayed back and forth, groaning. He reeled, tottered sideways, made a strenuous effort to keep erect, then fell forward, gasping audibly, and lay still.
Paul lowered his gun, and for a moment stood looking at the fallen man. His blood was wildly beating in his heart and brain. There was a barking of dogs far and near. Glancing toward the house, he noticed the forms of his mother and aunt framed by the kitchen doorway, the firelight behind them.
“It may be somebody shootin' bats”—Amanda's voice held a distinct note of alarm—“but I was shore I heard somebody speak sharp-like just before the shot was fired. Let's run down thar an' look.”
They dropped out of sight. Paul heard the patter of their feet, knew they were coming, and, for no reason which he could fathom, he retreated in the direction from which he had come. As if in a flash he caught and held the idea that, having done his duty, he would turn himself over to an officer of the law, as he had read of men doing in similar circumstances.
He had gone only a few hundred yards when he heard the two women screaming loudly; and why he did so he could not have explained, but he quickened his gait into a slow, bewildered sort of trot, the gun still in his hands. Perhaps it was due to the thought that he wanted voluntarily to give himself up before any one should accuse him of trying to flee. He was nearing Hoag's barn, and thinking of making a short cut to the village across the fields, when a man suddenly burst from the thicket at the side of the road and faced him. It was Hoag himself.
“Hold thar!” he cried, staring through the dusk at Paul. “What's all that screamin' mean? I heard a gun go off, an' rememberin' that you—say, did you—Good God! What you comin' back this way for?”
“I've killed Jeff Warren,” Paul answered, calmly. “I'm goin' to Grayson to give myself up.”